


allegro

by the_dot



Series: you can't run from the shadow [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: ...i don't think i ever actually say Aina's name, Gen, Magic, Unbeta'ed, Witch-in-training, Witchcraft, also technically, and doesnt have a name in this particular work, but if i ever finish the rest of this story it will, but w/e, i'll probably add more here later, or however you spell that, technically, the non-binary character is a shadow, which is terrible of me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 13:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8715196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_dot/pseuds/the_dot
Summary: (or: the first few steps)She's not sure if she should be elated or terrified.





	

**Author's Note:**

> alternate summary: the author wanted to post writing somewhere but is bad at fanfiction and this was the only thing she had finished  
> first ao3 post! (work? it's 1:30 AM and i'm tired)  
> enjoy!

The black thing has been bothering her for a while now, and she’s slowly crossing from terrified into annoyed.

Perhaps, she thinks, this is the wrong thing to be—she is training to be a witch, after all, even if she only has one spellbook she’s found and probably wrongfully kept to teach her. She could do some of the rituals that talk about getting rid of “peskies,” which she thinks this qualifies as, but she’d probably make the problem worse.

«You could give it back,» the black thing says into her mind, floating at the corner of her vision, and isn’t _that_ creepy as hell. Plus it’s blocking out the poppies she had been looking forward to seeing, which just makes her more annoyed. «I’d go away. I wouldn’t bother you again.»

She ignores it as she has done for the past seventy-two hours, keeping her eyes on the lecture hall. It isn’t her fault that the tiny red-haired boy who regularly drags himself in looking like he’s dead but for his impeccable, ridiculously bright clothes had forgotten one of his books in the Starbucks she works at. It really isn’t her fault that she’d had a burst of good Samaritan-ness and decided to return it to him next time she saw him. It (probably) isn’t her fault that he hasn’t been around at all since that day (unless he’s been looking for his book elsewhere, her unhelpful brain supplies). And she didn’t think anyone would blame her for opening a book that had a _dragon_ on the front. (Except maybe her friends, the girls she hung out with based on the fact that all of them had dyed or undercut hair, wore mostly black, and muttered under their breath about Ugg boots and pumpkin spice lattes, who already call her a poser and several other unkind words now that she’s gotten a job at Starbucks.)

The book hadn’t made sense, really, but the stuff it asked for in a mixture (potion?) that said it would help with menstrual symptoms ( _hell yes hell yes hell yes_ ) was easy to get if her parents didn’t already have it on hand. She brewed and drank it when the book had said she should—and her face stayed clear, she didn’t want to throw up with pain, and she could actually _move_ during the first few days of her period. She’s taken to it with fervor since then, forgoing a venture to Hot Topic and feeling very brown next to four snow-white girls in favor of poring over the book after her homework is finished.

She shakes herself out of her thoughts as she entered the lecture hall. The black thing is easier to ignore in the darkened theater, and she breathes a sigh of relief. She’s able to raise her voice enough to call out “here” when her name is called out, but she sinks back into herself as the teacher drones on about Western social practices in the nineteenth century, wondering if she has to get poblano peppers or if her father already has them somewhere; she’s at the South American chapter of spells and there was one for calmness. She’ll need it if she’s going to listen to Emily Flagg, the girl with the most piercings of the punk girls, read her trying-to-be-edgy, really crappy, racist-but-Aina-you’ll-get-told-off-if-you-tell-her-that poetry at the local Open Mic place.

She’s almost sorry when the lecture ends and she has to leave—the black thing is quieter when she can ignore it, but in daylight it’s hard. As she walks out, she distracts herself with the thought that she really _is_ punk, if she doesn’t want to go into the sun.

Suck it, Emily.

«Why do you persist?» the black thing asks. She has to force herself not to roll her eyes. «Just leave it. Anywhere. It will be found.»

She grits her teeth. _Don’t talk back, don’t talk back, don’t talk back._

«Why not?» it asks, and of _course_ it can hear her thoughts. «You’re odd, you know. You should’ve been driven mad when I appeared in your head.»

«A ringing endorsement for yourself,» she replies, fed up.

«You won’t be able to understand that book without the others. You don’t even know where to get half of the ingredients.»

«You could _tell_ me.» She isn’t expecting more than the mental impression of a snort. She _really_ isn’t expecting it to go silent, as if contemplating her words.

«You won’t stop, will you?» it asks. «You’ll just keep trying on your own, whether or not I help.» Its words aren’t nearly as degrading as they should be.

«You’ve been in my head for the last three days,» she says, feeling bold. «Don’t you know the answer to that?»

A feeling of dark amusement coiled around her mind.

«I like you,» the thing decides, and she can’t tell if that’s good or not. «8th and Lighthouse. There’s a wix shop that takes human money if you climb the tree.»

A thrill of excitement and maybe fear courses through her veins, and a feeling deep in her gut tells her that there’s no turning back now—or perhaps that’s the black thing.

**Author's Note:**

> i do have plans for this but i'm dealing with a lot right now, so i dunno when it'll be more of a thing. (also hmu if you want to edit this, i'm in desperate need as you can probably tell)  
> find me on tumblr at the-dot if you're into wailing and depression or dottywords if you just want writings


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